


My Body Is a Cage (That Keeps Me From Dancing With The One I Love)

by bookworm213



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ballet, Based on Seb's description of Bucky's backpack and notebooks, Bucky's dancer, But I REALLY want Bucky to be looking at Nat in those clips at the airport from the trailer, F/M, Flashbacks, I'm such buckynat trash, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Room, Slight Gore/Horror, and of course my buckynat trash mind thinking he wrote about her in those notebooks, as far as I know, ending has slight speculation for Civil War, flashbacks slightly based off aou, no spoilers though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm213/pseuds/bookworm213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He writes everything down, the good and the bad, in the notebook he manages to swipe from a convenience store. The good memories he holds onto like little treasures, the bad he scribbles frantically as though trying to get away from them. He can’t risk having nothing written down, lest he end up in the machine again. </p>
<p>One night, he dreams of a beautiful ballerina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body Is a Cage (That Keeps Me From Dancing With The One I Love)

**Author's Note:**

> Dammit Seb, I was not expecting you to give me such feels over your comment on Bucky's backpack! So of course I had to write a little drabble about Bucky having Natasha in his notebook! We're supposedly already getting interaction between them, so anything is possible! :)
> 
> Comments welcome! 
> 
> Check out my tumblr: http://natashkabarnes.tumblr.com

The memories come, and they hurt like hell. All blood and tourture and screams. Sometimes he’ll wake up gasping and vomiting, spewing the contents of his stomach out on the floor of whatever abandoned building he’s holed up in for the night. He takes to not eating for hours before sleep, so as to only dry heave when the nightmares become too much.

Not all the memories are bad. Mostly he remembers a tiny, cramped apartment that smells like smoke and overcooked cabbage. The boy so thin he might blow away with a strong gust of wind, huge blue eyes taking up his entire face. He remembers packing newspapers into the boy’s shoes so Sarah wouldn’t worry they were too big. Taking him to a beach with a big ferris wheel.

He writes everything down, the good and the bad, in the notebook he manages to swipe from a convenience store. The good memories he holds onto like little treasures, the bad he scribbles frantically as though trying to get away from them. He can’t risk having nothing written down, lest he end up in the machine again. 

One night, he dreams of a beautiful ballerina.

She stands on pointe, arms held gracefully above her head as she twirls in the empty studio, her rich auburn hair giving her the illusion of a flame moving with the wind. He watches her from the shadows, afraid to move, even to breathe, or else the vision before him might disappear. Every nerve in his body wants to join her, to wrap her in his arms, to feel the graceful curve of her muscles as she dances, but he knows somehow that it’s forbidden.

She turns in his direction, and lays eyes on him for the first time. Her full lips curve in a smile, an almost teasing grin.

He wakes with a start, hands grasping blindly for the vision of the studio, ears listening for the rich music of the piano. But he’s alone in some grimy warehouse, the image of the dancer’s smile burning his brain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He writes it all down, every vision of her, the most detailed description of her smile. Every night, mixed with the gore and terror, she comes to him, always him watching from the shadow’s, always her same smile. Her ballet skirt twirls around her as she does her routine, the studio only illuminated by the light of the snow falling outside.

He always wakes up sweating, hands shaking, throat burning with desire. He wants to join her so badly, wants to feel her skin, run his fingers through her red hair, feel her lips curve in that smile against his own. He always vows he will the next time he dreams of her, but he remains frozen in place, watching.

The next time he dreams of her he’s back in the studio, but something is different. The music of the piano now sounds like knives grating on the keys. Her face grimaces with effort as she dances, her arms and legs trembling as she struggles to hold herself upright. Tears roll silently down her cheeks. She repeats her routine endlessly, always to the barking command, “again!”

“Stop!” He hears himself say. The sound is fuzzy, like it’s coming from miles underwater. “You’ll break her.”

“Not her.” Comes another voice, an elderly, well-dressed woman who appears soundlessly beside him. “She is the strongest of them all. She will be the best.”

He wants to run to her, but his feet remain frozen in place. His dancer gives a cry as her feet can no longer hold her. She falls. His feet become unstuck and he rushes forward-

And he wakes up gasping, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He writes down every detail in that notebook, his most treasured possession. Pages and pages are now full of notes about his dancer. He wonder’s if she’s even real. He knows the skinny blond boy is, he’d saved him months ago from the waters of the Potomac, but not her. But his desire to protect and hold her feel real, feel as old and instinctive as life itself.

The next time he dreams of her she is no longer in pain. Once again she preforms her routine flawlessly, her eyes and lips smiling at him from the shadows. To his surprise and shock, she comes to where he stands and takes his hand.

"Dance with me, my love." It’s the first time he’s heard her voice, in Russian no less, but he feels the familiarity of it deep in his bones. She leads him out onto the floor, and he wraps her in his arms, as he’d so longed to do. She smiles as he sways her to the music, one hand gripping his waist for dear life, one hand going to something at her waist . . .

His lips open in a startled O as she dives the knife into his belly and twists it. _"I will be the best," she says triumphantly, still smiling, as his vision blurs and blood soaks the front of his shirt._

_That night, he wakes screaming._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_He swipes some colored pencils from an art shop before climbing onto a freight train bound for Romania. With the red and orange ones he sketches her fiery hair. The pink he uses on her skirt and ballet shoes. He finds he can’t quite capture the grace-fullness of her body or the beauty of her smile. He wonder’s briefly if the scrawny punk could help with this, he’s written down things about the boy being able to sketch._

_He wants to hold onto the memory of the beautiful red-hared ballerina. His ballerina._

_Months later, as explosions and the smell of jet fuel overpower him, he finds himself staring at the image of his dancer, her red hair flowing around her. Only this time, she isn’t smiling._

_“ . . .Natalia?”_


End file.
